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Please rattle your quills in your inkwells for hansbekhart who describes themself as "Twin, starving art college student, those are the easy ones. Budding fashion designer. Horror and romance fanfiction writer. My first slash couple appeared when I was ten, and I have never looked back. Currently obsessed with: Harry Potter, trying to stop my rabbit from eating the paint off my walls."
TEN? *blinks*
I had spotted this writer's work on one of the comms, with an epic H/D "Casualties" but I'm not a great reader of WIPs, so I hadn't read it, I did however read the epilogue, and that impressed me, so I went off to read some more.
Stories I read and liked:
"I hate myself" (Remus) R
A gut wrenching internalisation of Remus immediately after Sirius "killed" Peter, and a very real portrayal of someone grieving so deeply, all they can do, at first, is to live in this second, and maybe as far as the next 10.
He counts to ten over and over, and thinks that if he can just get through this hour, and the next, he will be fine, because nothing that hurts this badly can last forever. He feels the others’ stares on his bowed head as he stares at the ground, the graves, and feels as though he’ll never be able to speak again. Ten and ten and ten and ten. He records the funeral in his mind without emotion and tells himself that someday he’ll be able to pass the memory on to Harry. Six and seven and eight and nine. After a while, it’s the only thing that matters; drinking doesn’t make the hurt go away, but he tries it anyway. Ten and ten and ten.
"Window" H/D (R)
Whilst this fic does has a sexual encounter, that's not the attraction of the piece. It's the incredibly real depiction of the train - written as if this writer, (who lives in San Francisco) has actually travelled on a rickety wooden and iron steam train in an English Autumn night. The atmosphere is perfectly realised, the rattle of the tracks, the swaying, the velvet seats, the relections in the windows.
He has the desire to touch everything, to run his hands over the walls and the lacquered wood and the opaque glass leading to all other compartments, students, friendships, warmth, and familiarity. His breath comes up in barely concealed laugher, and then he does run his fingertips along the paneled wood that shakes with the rhythm of the train beneath him, and he doesn't know where to go, where the shadow has gone, but he follows his fingertips anyway, as if searching for the residual warmth from his silver phantom, until he passes to the last compartment in the train and a pair of pale hands yank him inside.
I'm off to read some others - so in the meantime, welcome to the community!
Please rattle your quills in your inkwells for hansbekhart who describes themself as "Twin, starving art college student, those are the easy ones. Budding fashion designer. Horror and romance fanfiction writer. My first slash couple appeared when I was ten, and I have never looked back. Currently obsessed with: Harry Potter, trying to stop my rabbit from eating the paint off my walls."
TEN? *blinks*
I had spotted this writer's work on one of the comms, with an epic H/D "Casualties" but I'm not a great reader of WIPs, so I hadn't read it, I did however read the epilogue, and that impressed me, so I went off to read some more.
Stories I read and liked:
"I hate myself" (Remus) R
A gut wrenching internalisation of Remus immediately after Sirius "killed" Peter, and a very real portrayal of someone grieving so deeply, all they can do, at first, is to live in this second, and maybe as far as the next 10.
He counts to ten over and over, and thinks that if he can just get through this hour, and the next, he will be fine, because nothing that hurts this badly can last forever. He feels the others’ stares on his bowed head as he stares at the ground, the graves, and feels as though he’ll never be able to speak again. Ten and ten and ten and ten. He records the funeral in his mind without emotion and tells himself that someday he’ll be able to pass the memory on to Harry. Six and seven and eight and nine. After a while, it’s the only thing that matters; drinking doesn’t make the hurt go away, but he tries it anyway. Ten and ten and ten.
"Window" H/D (R)
Whilst this fic does has a sexual encounter, that's not the attraction of the piece. It's the incredibly real depiction of the train - written as if this writer, (who lives in San Francisco) has actually travelled on a rickety wooden and iron steam train in an English Autumn night. The atmosphere is perfectly realised, the rattle of the tracks, the swaying, the velvet seats, the relections in the windows.
He has the desire to touch everything, to run his hands over the walls and the lacquered wood and the opaque glass leading to all other compartments, students, friendships, warmth, and familiarity. His breath comes up in barely concealed laugher, and then he does run his fingertips along the paneled wood that shakes with the rhythm of the train beneath him, and he doesn't know where to go, where the shadow has gone, but he follows his fingertips anyway, as if searching for the residual warmth from his silver phantom, until he passes to the last compartment in the train and a pair of pale hands yank him inside.
I'm off to read some others - so in the meantime, welcome to the community!